


I Should Kill You For What You've Done

by BipolarMolar



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry John, Apocalypse, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bunker Ending, Bunkers, Choking, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Cohabitation, John Whump, M/M, Making Out, Male Slash, Masochism, Minor Violence, Obsession, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Roughness, Tattoos, Top John, Whump, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BipolarMolar/pseuds/BipolarMolar
Summary: Three chapters. Three brothers. Three different bunker ending scenarios. Stuck in a bunker as the nuclear war rages, with a sadistic, beautiful man. What could go wrong?





	I Should Kill You For What You've Done

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will start the same, with the explosion and Rook being pulled from the wreckage of the car. The only thing that will change is the tune they whistle as they carry his body from the crash site. And of course, how they handle being in a bunker with him. This fic is unbeta'd so there are bound to be mistakes. If you see any, you can let me know and I'll take care of it.

**Boom.** The world blows orange and black. The sky is orange and the roads are black. Their car is surging and stuttering along the road, trees are crashing down, random explosions rock their world and there’s constant noise, screaming in the distance.  Pratt’s grabbing Rook’s shoulder in a death grip, fucking freaking out in his ear, and everybody needs to shut the FUCK up or they’re going to cra-

He can’t move. But the orange glare is still flickering on the backs of his eyelids. His eyelids are so thin and useless against that fierce orange glow, but at the same time, they feel impossibly heavy to lift. He stirs, tries to move his limbs but they feel like they’re encased in concrete. Behind him, none of the passengers stir. Instinctively, he knows they won’t move again.

He doesn’t have the strength to crawl out of the scarred hunk of metal, or even to remain conscious. Every second, his body sinks deeper into the darkness, snuffing out the sickly orange haze.

But then the car door is opening and hands, pale and ghostly in the amber light are reaching for him, pulling his broken body from the driver’s seat. He thinks he can hear whistling. An old song,the lyrics bob hazily in his memories.

_We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when_

_But I know we'll meet again some sunny day_

His body was laid down carefully, while the figure leaned over him. Hands smoothed his brow, brushed hair off his face and then drifted down to stroke his chest, under his shirt. The touch was familiar somehow. He would have opened his eyes, raised his head but the heaviness of sleep overtook him. The last thing he felt was something cool and smooth on his wrists.

* * *

 

He resurfaced, slowly and painfully. The blaring of the emergency broadcast filled the room, the artificial light from overhead punching him in the eyes. He blinked several times, turning his head to look around. A thought swam in his mind. He didn’t think it was Dutch who had pulled him from the wreckage of the car. He could faintly recall the touch, strong and sure, stroking his face and chest, almost adoringly. The whistling. Familiar somehow. He shivered. Was it Joseph? His head snapped up to catch sight of a man, in a blue shirt and black jeans. His back was turned but Rook didn’t need to see his face to recognise that it was John Seed. His heart lurched. He could almost feel the buzz of the tattoo gun on his chest, scratching _Wrath_ into his skin.

He’d known his dogfight with John would come back to haunt him. He’d managed to shoot John down but hadn’t got to him in time; John had fled by the time Rook was back on the ground and searching for him. Since then, there’d been radio silence from John- literally. Which was saying something because normally, John was constantly on the airwaves, advertising the church or goading Rook. At least he’d despatched Faith, Jacob and Joseph. Although that had taken much from him, physically and mentally.

He cast his mind back to their little run-in, when John had captured Deputy Hudson and himself. He’d hated himself for shaking when John had had him there in that chair. Sitting across from Hudson, her tear-stained face and quiet, desperate moans underneath her gag. He’d wanted to offer himself up first for confession, but something, his underdeveloped sense of self-preservation had briefly reared its head and he’d remained silent. Sitting here in the bunker, hands bound while John’s Italian leather shoes paced the floor, he loathed himself for his cowardice. What had it all been for, anyway? He’d failed to disarm the Seeds and what’s more, he’d lost everybody. Pratt and the others were dead. Fuck knows where Dutch was, but if he wasn’t in the bunker, he was surely dead as well. The only other human being around was a complete and utter madman.

Carefully, with as little movement as possible, he checked out his surroundings. His hands were handcuffed to a shelving unit, that explained the cool sensation on his wrists before he’d passed out again. He tested their strength, trying to remain slumped as if still asleep, looking up at John’s restless, pacing figure through his lashes. The handcuffs were too secure, he wasn’t getting out of them without the key. He would have to wait until John slept and then extract the key from him. Rook inwardly sighed, closing his eyes to feign sleep. The slap of John’s Italian leather shoes on the concrete floor continued until they drew to a halt. Right in front of Rook. His eyes shot open.

“Deputy!” John said, drawing the word out. Still with that thin, but buoyant voice, but he looked different. His face streaked with dirt and blood, his ear scarring over and his clothes torn. His blue eyes manic and desperate. A Herald with no leader.

“You hear that? Hear the alarms? It’s all over, Deputy. Just as Joseph predicted.” John raised his arms in triumph, a poor imitation of Joseph’s gesticulation.

John moved closer until his face, beard, and blue, blue eyes filled Rook’s vision. “And it’s just you and me. And you can _never leave_.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Still making up my mind. Do I kill you? Is it kinder to kill you? Can you still be redeemed? Joseph seemed to think so. He believed in you right ‘til the end,” John’s face darkened. “And now he’s _dead._ ”

Rook looked up at him and a sudden bolt of insanity made mirth bubble up in his throat.  He murmured “What Would Joseph Do?”

“No. No. _You don’t get to say his name._ ” John’s hands flew to Rook’s throat and the room blurred. The Hope County flag swam in his vision and he sagged against John, throat desperately swallowing for air that wasn’t there. His arms rattled the handcuffs but to no avail, all he could do was sit and suffer as John cut his air off. This was how he was going to die. He’d survived bear attacks, a grenade, drowning, countless gunshots but now, this sticky, visceral death, another man’s hands clamped around his neck, squeezing as hard as he could. A stupid, thoughtless death that nobody would ever know about.

At last, John released him and he landed heavily on the floor, gasping, trembling so violently, his boots knocked together. Whether John had planned to spare him or simply changed his mind on a whim, Rook didn’t know. Or care. His shaking hands rubbed the raw column of his throat, massaging life back into the sensitive skin.

John didn’t stay by his side, he returned to his pacing, wiping his hands on the sides of his jeans as he did so.

All things considered, Rook was surprised it had taken that long for John to resort to physical violence, locked in this bunker with him. He’d killed John’s family and Joseph was the only thing keeping John in line. Any fool could see that it was more than religious righteousness that fuelled John- his penchant for sadomasochism was evident in every aspect of his atoning sessions- the “baptism”, the tattoos. John was a man who enjoyed causing suffering and Rook was stuck in a fucking bunker with him.

* * *

 

John paced for what Rook estimated to be another fifteen minutes, then his demeanour changed, possibly, he’d grown weary from pacing. He approached Rook, dropped down to his haunches with a squeak of leather soles. Rook tried not to shrink back but it was difficult; he avoided John’s eyes. Expecting a punch or possibly a stab, Rook was surprised to find John unlocking his handcuffs. They fell from his wrists and onto the floor, jangling noisily. To his revulsion, John forcibly grabbed his wrists, examining the redness from the press of the metal, rubbing them with his hands to soothe them. A delicate, tender gesture that had no place being performed by John Seed.

Rather like when John had washed his chest to prepare him for the tattoo, Rook rather felt John’s eyes lingered for too long on his skin, this time, his wrists. “You don’t have to do that.” he said softly, for John had continued to slowly massage his wrists.

“I want to help you, Deputy Rook. I’ve only ever wanted to help you,” John said and the worst thing was that he seemed to genuinely mean that. “We would have been living in paradise together, you, me, my family and the rest of our following.”

“Paradise?” Rook said. “It would never be paradise to me if you were there, John.”

“You’re a godless ingrate,” John said, without venom. “Everything I did for you was to help you get to Eden’s Gate with us.”

“How kind of you. Not sure what I did to deserve such…dedication.” Rook took one of his hands back, surreptitiously placing it behind him. Something was digging into his back and his fingers curled around the object. An oxygen tank, it felt like. Good old Dutch.

“It was an impossible task, I see that now. There’s no reasoning with you. Wrath has taken such a foothold in your soul, all you seek are obstacles to knock down, enemies to slay. You were never going to join us, were you? But I tried so hard. To convince you. I knew there was some perfect combination of words I could say to you that would make you see sense, make you join us. But from the moment I met you, you challenged me, you-you tested and tempted me, you tried to make me renounce my faith and turn to sin-”

Rook quirked an eyebrow. “I did all that?”

“But I stayed strong and for what? For you to corrupt my faithful, murder my family and leave me in this bunker with nothing and nobody,” John reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. In his hand held loosely was a knife (although as Rook watched, his hand curled into a hard grip. It didn’t shake.) “You’ve taken everything from me, Deputy, tell me why I shouldn’t take the one thing from you that you’ve still got?”

Rook prepared himself. “My oxygen tank?” he swung his arm and the tank connected somewhere with the side of John’s face, the heavy _thunk_ of the canister and the slap against skin, John’s grunt of pain. Everything seemed to be moving too slowly, it reminded him of bobbing weakly in the lake, bliss and water pouring into his nose and mouth, body like lead and brain stuffed with cotton.

John bellowed in pain, an inhuman roar that echoed around the bunker.

He saw the fist coming and ducked in time, John missed but dragged Rook to his knees by the sides of his jacket. John lowered his head like a rampaging bull and Rook was too slow, John’s headbutt hit him hard, his vision flickered and the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, dripping down from his nose.

His hands flailed, looking for anything to punch or hit, his fingers found John’s ear, scarred from Rook’s lucky shot back in the church and he grabbed it, digging his nails in. John hissed, and released him immediately, Rook fell onto him and they both fell heavily onto the floor, John landing harder than Rook. The thud of John’s body hitting the floor was satisfying but Rook spared no time to dwell on this, pinning down John’s arms with his knees, straddling his waist so he couldn’t get up. His hands locked around John’s throat and he squeezed. It was so direct, this wasn’t shooting at Peggies from a vehicle like some video game hero. He was here, causing pain with his hands and brute strength alone while John’s eyes bulged and he gasped, the most sadistic of the Seeds now reduced to spluttering and pawing ineffectually at Rook’s hands. But something in his eyes seemed to gleam and his hands, first clawing were now wrapping around Rook’s hands, as if to keep them there. John smiled through the pain and watering eyes, choking out a word again and again. Rook didn’t need to hear his strangled voice to know the word was “Yes, yes, _yes.”_ Rook slackened his grip, panting from exertion but John still held his hands in place.

Their eyes met.

Despite the circumstances, it felt natural, right even, to be sitting here, connected with another human being. Feeling John’s pulse jump under Rook’s fingers, hearing the ragged, rasping breaths, watching sweat bead on John’s forehead and then slide down his forward towards his temple, before melting into his hairline.

It was natural, perfectly excusable that when John craned his neck and pressed his lips to Rook’s mouth, that Rook would kiss him back.

John melted into the kiss, his lips surprisingly soft and his beard tickling Rook’s chin. His arms broke free from their place under Rook’s knees and encircled the deputy’s waist. Rook’s hands hadn’t changed position although they were no longer strangling John’s throat but stroking it, rubbing his thumbs on John’s Adam’s apple with a kind of wonder.

His brain knew the mouth he was kissing was a mouth that had barked orders to the Peggies to beat and kidnap and drown the townspeople. His brain knew the hands that stroked his back and hiked up Rook’s shirt had used guns and knives, cut into people’s skin. But his body didn’t know that. His body knew that the warmth of John’s body, the heat of his crotch against Rook’s ass felt good, the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around him felt strangely safe.

Rook’s back was starting to ache, straddling John and bending down to kiss him was forcing his spine into an unnatural curve but he was so reluctant to do anything that could break the kiss. Anything that would ruin this moment.

John’s fingers fumbled with the buttons on Rook’s shirt, he unbuttoned and spread both sides of it, exposing Rook’s chest. John’s eyes open and adoring, it took a moment for Rook to realise he was gazing at the Wrath tattoo John had forcibly given him. His fingers traced the angry letters and Rook shivered, cringing back from those curious fingers. His ass brushed against John’s crotch, the black jeans already tenting between his legs. He couldn’t avoid John’s hungry hands though, John grabbed hold of his shoulders and pressed his face into Rook’s chest, his lips and beard tickling flesh as he mouthed kisses onto the inked skin. John’s mouth gravitated to his pectorals and he and rubbed his face against them, absentmindedly taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking on it dreamily, with his eyes closed. Pleasure jolted through Rook, a needle-thin shot of sensation threaded directly from John’s teeth. John broke off to kiss Rook’s throat, his hair, anywhere he could reach.

Rook sagged, leaning into the touch so heavily he fell on top of John. Before Rook had time to react, John had flipped them over so now he was on top, covering Rook with his body, a devilish smile on his face.

John’s eyes looked Rook up and down.

“All laid out for me, aren’t you? Mine for the taking,” John carefully stripped Rook of his shirt and moved to the buckle of his pants. “When I first met you, I hated you. I didn’t know what Joseph saw in you. But the darkness in you. Deputy. So much wrath. You’re like a black hole, you destroy everything, you can’t help it,” John rubbed his palm over Rook’s half-hard crotch, making him moan.  

“And you can’t blame me for getting sucked in.” John whispered, covering Rook’s mouth with his own.

Rook let himself be handled like a mannequin, his legs knocked apart by John’s knees, so John could settle between his thighs. He let John kiss him, open up his mouth with his tongue surging in, rolling like the tide and exploring every crevice of his mouth. John kissed with fervent desperation, for all his talk of Rook being a black hole, he was the one trying to consume Rook like a starving man, his hands roaming everywhere, every patch of skin he touched left burning hot.

If he’d been honest, he’d wondered what sex with John was like. He was very handsome, but not obnoxiously so, blessed with good genetics but with a beard and hard eyes that kept him from being “pretty boy” handsome. John had looked handsome, charming even, in his television adverts for the church. And the sinuous way he’d leant against his table in his tattoo torture room, the deliberate, lithe strides he took towards Rook, the way he’d washed Rook’s chest in preparation for the tattoo. And of course, all the talk of taking, receiving and filling holes- Rook had been confused and subconsciously disappointed when John had straightened up and switched the talk to confession and atonement instead.

John had removed Rook’s belt and unzipped his fly, but it was slow progress, impeded as he was by his need to stop every few seconds to kiss Rook or run his hands over him. Rook was left with the impression that John didn’t touch people very much. Well, of course, he did, when tattooing them, but having free rein of Rook’s body like this, with the deputy lying compliant and relaxed, seemed to be a novelty for John.  He delighted in running his hands through Rook’s thick, dark hair, dragging his fingernails along Rook’s stubble and stroking his cheekbones tenderly with a finger. The finger with the “N” for Eden inked on it, Rook noted dizzily. A sick fascination wormed in his brain, a desire to see all of John’s tattoos. He knew of the words Eden’s Gate on John’s fingers, the Latin(?) words on his hand, the Hope County flag. But as he gently pushed John off his face, and began to methodically unbutton John’s vest and then his blue shirt, he realised he wanted to see it all. The scarification on John’s chest looked as red and angry as when he’d first glimpsed it peeking out of the v of his shirt. He smoothed his fingers along it and trailed his hands down John’s bare chest.

Tattoos swirled around his biceps, crawled down his chest, everywhere was marked. The ink wasn’t particularly threatening, mainly sins and corny phrases that didn’t seem connected to one another. As if John was stitched together from several parts. He wondered what John had looked like before the tattoos, before Eden’s Gate. Staring up at John’s face, Rook was compelled with the urge to kiss him again. He wasn’t foolish enough to think John could change, could be saved but a part of him wanted to mourn the man John could have become if his parents hadn’t taught him the power of yes.

John kissed him back but then crawled down to Rook’s knees. He peeled Rook’s pants down his legs, his boxers following, with the confidence of a man who had this many times before. And before Rook knew it, John had taken his cock into his mouth.

Engulfed in the wet warmth of John’s mouth, Rook’s cock swelled. John sucked, seeming encouraged by Rook’s responsiveness. The deputy dared a look at him. John’s eyes were half-closed, his expression the most tranquil Rook had ever seen on him, his pink lips stretched wide around Rook’s dick. A particularly powerful suck pulled an involuntary buck of the hips from Rook, and John gagged. Rook’s apology died on his lips as John thrust his hand down the front of his own pants, palming his cock furiously. Of course, John would like pain. Acting on instinct, Rook grabbed John’s head, knotting his fingers in his hair. “You’re no holy man, John. You’re just a slut and a junkie. If God came here right now and wanted to accept you into Heaven, you’d tell him to fuck off. Because stuffing your mouth full of my cock is all the heaven you need. Isn’t that right?”

John pulled off Rook’s cock with a loud pop, pre-cum glistening on his lips. “Yes. God, yes.” He left Rook’s side for a moment, to grab his trench coat where it lay draped over the shelving unit. He retrieved something from the pocket.

Rook’s cock, now fully hard, twitched, John’s saliva cooling and drying on him. “Get over here.”

“Ready.” John panted, dropping to his knees between Rook’s spread legs. John’s hands disappeared under Rook’s legs and he felt his legs being pushed wider apart and higher until they formed arches between John’s kneeling form.

John’s finger, cold and slick with lubricant, pressed at the cleft of Rook’s ass and he squirmed but didn’t stop him.  John’s finger circled his hole, careful and gentle, smearing lube all around the tight entrance until he began to slowly but firmly push in. Rook breathed through the intrusion, forcing his body to relax. John worked his way into the knuckle, then withdrew and added another finger. The burn was stronger this time but his body worked to get used to it, with John scissoring his fingers to stretch him wider. There wasn’t any pleasure tied to the gesture, John wasn’t fingering him deeply enough for that but the thought of what was to come, John’s cock, deep inside him was enough to make the air feel very thin, suddenly.

The slick, wet sounds of John generously applying lube to his cock made his mind race, he resisted the urge to sit up and watch.

“Ok,” John whispered. He lined up his thighs between Rook’s and guided himself in, just the head at first. Rook snaked his hand down to stroke John’s shaft, feeling somewhat smug that John’s was a little shorter than his own cock, although it was thicker, admittedly. He struggled not to reject the intrusion, and John, emboldened, pushed further in until his balls rested against Rook’s ass. He gave him a few seconds grace to get used to the feeling, then began to fuck him properly.

John fucked him deeply, pulling out almost completely and slamming back in, doing this again and again until both men were shining with sweat. His hands snaked between their bodies, mussing Rook’s happy trail until it curled around his cock, pumping his shaft in time with his thrusts. _Fuck,_ John knew what he was doing.

He threw his head back and groaned as one hard thrust ignited some spark of pleasure deep inside him, arching his back. _Fuck, more, more, more,_ he thought, silently willing John to keep fucking at that perfect angle. Maybe he said it aloud because John slotted one of Rook’s legs over his shoulder and really started to screw him, slamming into him so hard he was panting, his hand still wrapped perfectly around Rook’s cock, pumping him hard enough to hurt.

Rook moaned, grabbing John’s face and smashing their mouths together, biting John’s bottom lip.

John’s thrusts became less controlled, more frenzied and he fucked Rook madly, their lips glued together as John came undone, right before Rook’s eyes; He pounded him desperately, moaning like a whore through the kiss, until he gave one final thrust and something hot and wet exploded in Rook, John’s spunk shooting deep inside him. John gave one last shuddering breath and collapsed on Rook, pinning him down with his weight. John’s hand, shaking through the high, returned to stroking Rook’s cock until Rook felt that familiar build-up of heat in his abdomen, his balls tightening. He arched into John’s hand, sliding against warm, sweaty skin until white ropes of cum poured out of him, ecstasy racing through his veins, as he shook through the juddering waves of pleasure.

He sank back down, boneless, oversensitivity setting in, with fluids cooling in him and on him. The room took on a chill and he shivered. John had the presence of mind to drag his coat to them by the sleeve and throw it over both them. Thick fabric, nice quality. Lucky John. Rook snuggled into the warmth of John’s body heat, something sated in him, something that had been there since the moment he’d first met John.  He sneaked a glance at John’s face. Maybe this had always been in the cards for them.

“What are you thinking about?” John’s voice was quiet in the echoey room.

“Us.”

“That’s what I was thinking of,” John looked at him, face serious. “We’ve got seven years in here. Then, we can leave. We can rebuild Eden’s Gate-” At the look on Rook’s face, he hurriedly said “We’ll do it differently. We’ll only take on willing volunteers. Any sinner who doesn’t want to join, we won’t force them.”

“Let’s talk about that later. We’ve got years for that. I just…is this going to be ok for you? Being in this place? With me?” John, restless John with his drugs and sex and sermons and desire to cut into skin and watch it bleed…

John’s eyes gleamed. “Are you kidding? You’re here with me, bearing my tattoo and you’re beautiful and you’re _mine_. And you can _never leave me_. Ever. _This_ is my heaven.”

Unnerved but also somehow flattered, Rook laughed. He had seven years to get used to John’s creepy yet cute affection. “Good because I wouldn’t want to meet a God who would let you into Heaven, John.”

John considered that and smiled. They lay like that, entwined until sleep overtook them.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you liked this, please, please drop me a comment to let me know what you thought and what you'd be interested in seeing in the Jacob and Joseph chapters. Every comment and kudos makes my day. I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it.


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